Читать книгу Self Help - Elizabeth Poreba - Страница 12

The artist limed his wounds with care

and swelled his cauliflower ear.

It’s a brief interval between bouts.

He looks back. Who’s out?

Resting his elbows on his knees,

hunching, bulky, an abject beast.

Once people stroked his feet for luck,

leaving the unguent of their touch.

Invaded, Romans buried him deep.

Dirt chewed him brown and verdigris.

Now he’s earth and art enmeshed,

his bronze friable as flesh.

Around him, the standing statues pose

silent as stone dolls,

But this one crouching, close to defeat,

suffering, seems to speak.